


Take

by Sky_kiss



Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Mind Games, Oral Sex, Power Play, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He makes love not unlike how he fights. Very little in the way of finesse, only raw power, the knowledge that he is stronger, faster, than any of their species on this planet. Home field advantage, he'd told her with a knowing smirk. Superman/Faora, PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Sliiiiight AU in which there is more time between Zod and crew revealing themselves and then being drop kicked off earth. Had to indulge this crack pairing because...because...so pretty. Shameless PWP.

**TAKE**

She's beginning to regret this odd little tyst they've fallen into. Zod instructs her to observe the rogue son of Krypton and she complies without second thought. She has suffered worse indignities than walking amongst the humans and he is not a...displeasing mark. At first, they are nothing more than enemies. She enjoys this more than she cares to admit.

He is beautiful in combat, those cool features stripped from him to reveal him for what he really is. A child, scared and alone and clumsy with the strength of an infinitely greater race at his fingertips. She can make out the agony of his upbringing, all the rejection, all the rage flowing from him during their little bouts. He is unwieldy, untrained, unshapen. Even still, she is forced to a standstill more often than she would care to admit. This world is still foreign to her and the boy has thirty years of experience to the mere days she's spent. For all her martial prowess there is something to be said for brute force.

He is beautiful, noble, naive, and she finds herself intrigued by the pathetically human combination. The young man stares at her with painfully blue eyes, all concern for the people surrounding them. And for her. He pities his enemies. She knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the child would love nothing more than to 'redeem' her. It is laughable. It is fascinating.

That fascination grows to something uncomfortable, the feeling mutual. Their brawls become more brutal and she revels in it. There is a pride in the ache he leaves singing over her nerves long after they've finished. There is a certain allure in stripping all his high minded, innocent ideals from him and indulging that darker half. His rage, his more primal force. In those moments, when their skin happens to meet, it's not unlike one of the storms back on Krypton. It is pure energy and power, enough to destroy her and unmake her as it sees fit.

In time, she wants nothing more than to own that force.

In time, she does. It's a blur of movement up to this point, a mishmash of teeth and tongue as they grapple with one another. The odd dance is still unsure, their unnatural strength bringing them to a standstill as they fight the urge to push the other away or pull them closer. In the end, he'd won out, fingers hooking beneath her belt and hauling her the rest of the way to him. His hands easily span her waist, holding her pointedly in place as he kisses her properly (tasting of anger, frustration, years of repression suddenly let loose).

The son of El. So woefully conflicted despite his grandiose morals. Chuckling to herself, she shoves at his shoulders, the unexpected touch sending him falling back. He watches her through narrowed eyes even as her hands move to the fastenings of her armor. She lets it fall from her with practiced ease, leaving a trail of metal in her wake as she descends on him. They have less time than she'd prefer and she knows her own desires enough to prioritize. The urge to tease him is lessened considerably by the promise of having him buried inside her.

The black suit falls away from her like a second skin, pooling at her feet. She holds her head arrogantly high as his gaze sweeps over her and for the first time she sees what she desires. Hunger. Want. Base emotions free of his human sensibilities. The cool air kisses her skin, trailing down the curve of her back like fingers as he drinks her in. They are both perfection and he seems to stare at the sight of her, pale, flawless skin, perfect breasts and long legs, all lithe muscle. Her very body is a weapon, one he knows, from experience, is wielded with deadly precision.

The urge to have him on his knees, his dark head buried between between her legs is neglected in favor of the sight of him on his back. The muscles in his arms strain as he clutches at the ruined cement blocks left in the aftermath of their bout, the ones in his neck cording deliciously as he holds himself back. It takes less than a thought and less than a second to descend on him, straddling his hips in one fluid movement.

And gods, does he feel good. She tips her head back, watching the shadows above them instead of his face as the once familiar sensations play through her body.

Faora worries her lower lip between her teeth, clamping down to muffle the pleased groan poised on the tip of her tongue. It's been so long since she last indulged like this, since she's been touched by anyone with such life. He makes love not unlike how he fights. Very little in the way of finesse, only raw power, the knowledge that he is stronger, faster, than any of their species on this planet.

Home field advantage, he'd told her with a knowing little smirk.

There is something liberating in the whole of it. He does not grovel at her heels as one of her subordinates might, does not stare at her with overt lust or some desire for ownership as the men of Krypton had. The son of El regards her with the same caution as he ever has. There is no trust, no love, no affection. This is nothing more than a battlefield of a different sort.

His fingers tangle in her hair, forcing her head back as he sits up beneath her, kissing his way down her throat. Her heart beats faster on this world, the thin atmosphere leaving her gasping for air in the most mundane situations. Now, it's almost impossible to breath. She grits her teeth, nails biting at the back of his skull as she holds him in place, her free hand raking down his back. She lacks the sheer physicality of the man beneath her but she has strength enough to break skin, leaves thin, angry, trails down his back, hidden.

He frowns against her chest, dragging his teeth over the rise of her breast. The suddenly delicate touch is a punishment all of its own, a mockery of the force they typically employ. She rolls her hips irritably, the fabric of his suit overly smooth against her inner thighs. Cool and alien, perfectly adhered to his frame and still an infuriating obstacle.

"You're not going to get anywhere if you don't let me up."

He speaks to her with more confidence now, lips curved up in that odd half smile, brows furrowed. A mixture of genuine amusement and something more condescending. She grinds down with more force, enjoying the way his neck snaps back, muscles cording, as she pulls him more tightly to him. As durable as their suits are, as perfectly adjusted for different climates, they do little to prevent this sort of sensation. He will feel her, all of her. That she is wet for him, ready for him, that she is willing to share her body in this manner.

He is an impressive specimen, even for a member of their species, and she finds herself fighting the urge to react to him, choking down her more visceral pleasure. Her tongue flicks out to moisten painfully dry lips, hips still rolling, as near as she can take him. Wonderfully, tellingly, hard to contrast his self assurance. The urge to end their little power play in favor of riding him until she can no longer muster the energy is growing ever more appealing. Her voice, naturally airy and dark, is worse now, the words exhaled as she fights to retain her control.

"Then take, son of El," he grunts something she doesn't quite catch at the ceiling, bucking beneath her. Intentional or not, he grazes her clit, the pressure welcome and furthering her frustration all at once. The strength has her vision swaying dangerously and she hears her moan as if from far away. Growling, she adjusts his head, thrusting her chest at his eager lips. Like the obedient farm boy he is, his follows her command, catching her nipple between his teeth with zeal, licking and sucking at the overly sensitized flesh while his free hand palms at her. The pressure is building to an intolerable level and she purses her lips, nails biting at perfect muscle once more, "As is your right."

"For all your talk of authority I don't see you taking the lead."

She chuckles, biting down hard enough on her lip draw blood as he holds her fast, suckling at her breasts. Clutching at his arms she begins to move more in earnest, the feel of him nestled against her almost enough. She can still feel him, all of him, straining against the overly tight confines of the suit. "It is not I who needs to prove herself."

"That's convenient."

There is so much frustration in him, coursing just beneath the surface. With a smirk, she slides further down his thighs, enough to leave her just below where he needs her most. Faora watches, fascinated, as the muscle in his body pull tight beneath her touch, gliding down his body. She stops, cupping his erection briefly before trailing lower still. Kal-El pauses to take in the change, leaning back on his forearms to observe as her hand slips between her legs.

The pleasure she will be able to give herself pales in comparison to the real thing but it's enough and she growls as her fingers part her folds. With a wicked smirk, she sets to work, tweaking her clit, sweeping lower to trace her own entrance. The urge to plunge inside is deep but she denies herself. The want is already so pressing; she can last a little longer.

Kal-El sets his hands on her knees, widening her stance to better watch her movements. The practiced, fluid grace of each pass of her fingers, how her nails pinch and knead until she's gasping for air. The way her body pulls tight when she finally grants herself relief, burying her fingers to the knuckles within her too willing heat. They curl, pumping furiously as she chases her orgasm, apparently forgetting her lover.

He catches her hand, features dark as he stops her movement all together. Faora snarls at him, lips curling back in an irritated sneer as he shoves her off of him. With enough force to drive the air from her body, he crashes back into her, pinning her between himself and the granite slab. He hauls her up the length of his body, spreading her legs as he dips his head to her core.

The scream is unexpected, her body bowing as his lips close around her clit. He scrapes teeth over the sensitive bundle of nerves, leaves a hint of pain to the delirious pleasure as his fingers slide back inside her, mimicking her earlier movements. He is so much greater and she groans, feels herself stretching to accommodate the added size, filling her deliciously.

She is already so close and he pushes her over the edge without much fanfare. While his hand stops, he continues to lick at her, drinking her in, tongue stroking through her folds as if mapping her. He lifts her hips to tongue her entrance, the wet heat leaving her twitching embarrassingly in her grasp. The Kryptonian woman is left to shove him away, the pleasure burning uncomfortably bright, beginning to build again.

He smirks at her, the expression translating as she kisses him, her taste still strong on his lips, "You asked me to take."

"I told you to take," she mumbles back, fingers hooking in the collar of his suit. Without pretense, she yanks, the sound of ribbing fabric entirely too welcome, barring him to her gaze.

He stares at her in obvious displeasure, "There was a zipper."

"You had every opportunity, son of El."

"Clark," he mumbles, shimmying out of the ruined fabric. As small as the comment is, she recognizes the underlying insult. How, even now, he chooses the humans over his own people. He chooses their name for him over his true one.

"Kal," she replies evenly, the simple word breathed against his skin as her hands smooth over his chest, down his abdomen. He is the epitome of male perfection; she smirks, tangling her fingers in the dark hair dotting his pecs, nipping at his chin, "Kal-El of Krypton."

"Clark Kent of Kansas."

Faora sighs heavily, shaking her head, "Needlessly stubborn. Would it not be so simple..." He learns her lessons too quickly. He takes, the grip on her waist tightening as he pulls her down on him, filling her in harsh movement. She growls, throwing her head back as he thrusts again, bringing himself deeper. His blue eyes are wonderfully dark, watching her carefully, giving her time to adjust to his size. The warrior suffers the unseemly urge to sag against his chest; it's been so long since she was this full.

"You were saying, Commander?"

Her chuckle is dark and she repeats her sigh, clenching around him as she rolls her hips. There is an unseemly satisfaction in the way he groans, holding her tightly enough to bruise, so in need of release...he bucks into her, the movement of his hips halfway frantic as they crash together, too desperate to properly meet her downstroke. Clutching his shoulders, she lets her nails dig, the hint of pain pushing him ahead further still. Those delicious muscles all pull tight as he strains to control himself. Needing control and wanting relief...

They have so little time but she finds herself smirking, leaning forward so that her breasts graze his chest and he's forced deeper, milking him. They have so little time but she chuckles into the half darkness, determined to make him work.


End file.
